


Need

by AndromedaPrime



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, Smut, Sticky Sex, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-06
Updated: 2011-11-06
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:43:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndromedaPrime/pseuds/AndromedaPrime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever one of them needed company or comforting or a stress-reliever, he went to the other for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need

The emerald green goop was gone from his systems and the wound inflicted by Megatron healed, thank Primus. He’d put away the devices used to stabilize him, grateful that he had given Arcee and Bumblebee that crash course in dealing with external wounds for cases that he couldn’t physically deal with. Ratchet rounded the corner from the main room towards his quarters, punching in the security code to get into his private room. 4-7-6-6-4-4-3-3. The keypad gave a quiet, musical beep with each number he punched in. The doors slid open and he walked inside.

Of course, just because it was _his_ room didn’t mean that he couldn’t give the password to anyone else.

He let the doors slide closed and lock behind him as he took in the sight before him. He was surprised, after the outburst aimed at the mech, to find the last of the Primes seated on his berth, legs swung over the edge as he silently read from a datapad fetched from his stash of books. The medic cleared his vocals.

Optimus looked up and locked optics with Ratchet for a brief moment before he set the datapad aside and backed up onto the berth, wordlessly spreading his legs.

“Heh,” Ratchet chuckled even as his interfacing systems hummed with arousal at the sight of those silver thighs parted enticingly before him. “I thought I would be the one asking for company tonight, not you Optimus.”

“We both need it,” the semi said lowly, normally bright blue optics darkened with lust.

The ambulance slowly stepped forward, almost too slowly for Optimus to handle, and climbed onto his berth, settling between those delicious thighs and putting a hand on Optimus’s chassis to get him to lie on his back. The taller mech did so, his optics closing and servos clenching into fists as he waited impatiently for the medic to start something, do _anything_ to relieve the want coursing in his systems.

Both had done this before, many times in the past, the first being when the newly-crowned Prime comforted the medic, who was hysterical over the inability to locate his sparkmate-to-be Ironhide. The red, trigger-happy mech had gone missing with four others in his squad during a skirmish in Polyhex, and Ratchet was unable to find him. He was inconsolable, and Optimus did his best to assure the medic that there was still chance of Ironhide being alive. One thing led to another, and before both of them knew what happened, the Prime was clutching onto the medic’s trembling shoulders, arching his back as the medic’s transfluid spilled into his body, their screams of ecstasy coming together in a harmonious song.

Ironhide had never been found. Whenever one of them needed company or comforting or a stress-reliever, he went to the other for it. The routine was always the same in the end, with Optimus being spiked by the Autobot medic. There had been two times where both mechs tried reversing themselves, but Optimus found that he preferred to be the subordinate when it came to interfacing, and Ratchet discovered that he enjoyed the feeling of dominance.

The medic traced his silver fingers up the semi’s side and savored the aroused shudder that his actions elicited. He quietly placed his right servo on Optimus’s chassis, on the left window, and trailed his left servo down the Prime’s side and down to the prominent, blue armored hip, cupping the hip in his servo and tracing his fingers over the metal. The red and blue mech quivered as his arousal surged, stretching his arms out to the sides and clutching the edges of the berth. He opened his optics, vision hazy but still able to see the finer features of the ambulance. Ratchet was looking directly at him and said, “I feared that I wouldn’t be able to see you like this again, Optimus.”

The Autobot Commander narrowed his optics, not in anger or disapproval but in an attempt to momentarily regain cognizant thought. No easy feat, given the hand that was now lifting his hip and hooking his leg over a shoulder, and the mouth that was suckling on his inner right thigh. Optimus moaned lowly and managed to choke out, “W-when I saw you in a pool of your own energ-gon,” he gasped as a warm glossa licked his quivering thigh, “I-I thought the w-worst.”

The mouth stopped its ministrations, and blue optics met blue optics as Ratchet touched the side of his helm to the leg hooked over his shoulder, looking contemplatively at his Prime. At his lover spread before him. The room thrummed with the sound of their systems purring, and the medic stroked the outer surface of the thigh, murmuring just loud enough for Optimus to hear “It’s going to take more than a bunch of Decepticons to debilitate me.”

With that, Ratchet removed his other servo from Optimus’s chassis and grabbed the other leg, laying it on his other shoulder. The Prime scooted back and sat up slightly so he was leaning against the back wall, doing his best to take some of the weight off the medic, and sighed shakily as that white helm dipped down and mouthed at the seams of his interfacing panel.

One of Optimus’s little games was that he liked to keep Ratchet hanging, keeping his interfacing panel closed as the medic worked for it, mouthing and suckling at the seams. Only when he couldn’t stand the stimulation anymore did he retract his panel to reveal himself. Ratchet both hated and loved Optimus for it, despising the wait, but savoring the result all the more by knowing he had worked for it.

The medic dipped his glossa into a ridge, tasting a faint hint of lubricant that almost worked his systems into overload. He onlined his cooling fans and, his voice muffled against the panel, murmured, “Open up.”

Nothing. Only a shifting of curved hips, followed by an anxious moan. Ratchet swirled his glossa over the center of the heated panel and repeated, “Open up.”

Optimus, having reached the end of his tether, sighed as he retracted the lower half of his panel and let cool air caress his valve.

The scent of the lubricant overwhelmed Ratchet’s olfactory sensors. He usually would have had to repeat those two words about five more times before his Prime gave in, but that thought was tossed aside as the tangy-yet-sweet odor also became taste. The medic buried his faceplate against Optimus’s valve and dipped his glossa into the opening, causing the red and blue mech to buck his hips and pant harshly, trembling. He was dimly aware of the sound of his name escaping the mouth of the larger mech as he hummed and flicked his glossa against clusters of sensor nodes, lapped against the walls of the port and drew some of the sweet lubricant into his mouth.

Optimus placed both his servos on each side of the medic’s helm buried between his thighs and gave short, quick gasps in rapid succession as his pleasure shot through the roof of the base and past the Earth’s atmosphere. Oh _Primus_ , this was blissful, this was wonderful, the sensation of an agile tongue working him over the edge. His valve clenched around the glossa and he attempted to press closer, seeking more stimulation, more _moremoremore_.

The Prime’s body was quaking, shivering, and Ratchet smiled against the valve. He hated to do this, but he gave one last lap against the valve walls before drawing out and planting a soft kiss against the sensor-rich rim, lowering the legs to each side of him and stretching his body out to hover over the lean, long body. Ratchet’s blue optics, formerly a shade of emerald, looked down into the deep blue eyes of his Prime. A very gravid silence passed between them, filled only by the sounds of their systems working, before Ratchet leaned down and pressed his lips to Optimus’s own, sharing the taste of the Autobot Commander’s lubricant. Shivering, the red and blue mech reached under the medic and traced a long finger over the seams. It was all that Ratchet needed, and the top half of the panel opened to reveal a thick and long interfacing spike. Optimus wrapped the hand around the sensitive, aroused metal and thumbed the tip, which was leaking pre-transfluid. The medic’s intakes hitched, and he broke away from the kiss, shifting his hips and lowering them to encourage more stimulation.

The red and blue semi ran his servo over the surface, smearing the beads of transfluid seeping out of the slit. He leaned up again and kissed the medic, using his other servo to press the ambulance’s head towards him to deepen the kiss. Ratchet was pumping his hips, sliding the spike in and out of the servo’s grip and moaning as the friction created a tingling sensation that whiplashed through every neural wire in his frame.

Optimus withdrew his servo and moved his body, wrapping his legs around the medic’s waist and impaling himself Ratchet’s spike.

Intakes hitched as the medic was enveloped in velvet heat and as the semi was filled. Optimus tightened his legs around Ratchet’s waist and clutched to his shoulder armor, burying his face in the crook of Ratchet’s neck and venting hot air as the medic rolled his hips, slowing sliding in and out of the Prime’s valve.

Ratchet breathed against a blue and silver finial, murmuring, “You’re tighter than usual.”

Optimus closed his optics, moaning at the slow and steady thrusts, and replied softly, “It’s been a while, Ratchet.” He dug his fingers into the gaps and crevices in the medic’s shoulder armor and gasped when a particularly sensitive node was prodded by the tip of the spike in his valve. He felt their fluids, his lubricant and Ratchet’s transfluid, mixing and leaking out of his opening, sliding and trickling down their thighs and onto the berth.

Ratchet wrapped his arms around Optimus, pressing him towards his body, and began increasing the tempo of his thrusts, slamming in and out of the Prime’s body. Optimus cried out, his shout muffled by the medic’s neck, and tightened his grip on Ratchet. The medic couldn’t think coherently anymore, his mind on his spike in velvet, wet heat, and began hammering in and out of the valve. He was acutely aware of the cries and gasps Optimus was giving, moaning as the Prime began rolling his hips and pressing down on the spike.

The surge of overload hit them, taking them both by surprise. Optimus felt his valve tighten to the point where he could feel every ridge on the spike, then the explosion of bliss came, sweeping him up, and he cried out, back bowing but still clutching onto Ratchet’s frame. The medic slammed his hips upwards and shouted as his transfluid shot up into Optimus’s valve and into the longer, leaner mech’s reproductive chamber.

Both mechs stayed in their positions, venting air, letting their bodies cool down. Optimus sighed shakily and dropped his hands from the ambulance’s shoulders, drawing off the spike and wincing as some more mixed fluids trickled down his thighs.

Ratchet remembered that he had a stash of cloths somewhere near his berth. He leaned over and felt the air around the berth until he found it near the upper-left corner. Grabbing one of the cloths, he wiped away the fluids coating the berth, his thighs and spike. Turning to Optimus, he found that the Prime was sitting against the wall with his legs closed, watching him. The medic leaned forward and gently touched a silver thigh, getting the semi to part his legs so he could clean him up.

He felt the optics on him as he slowly and meticulously cleaned those silver thighs. Those beautiful silver thighs. If Optimus would have let him, he would build a temple to the Prime’s body and worship those long legs, curved hips, broad chest and slender midsection. He ran his index digit over a stray scratch on the semi’s right thigh, optics glazing over as he traced the scrape from end to end.

A soft moan broke the silence in the room and Optimus shifted his hips, scrunching up his optics and shuddering. Ratchet knew why immediately; the transfluid he’d spilled into Optimus’s body was sloshing around inside the reproductive chamber. The Prime was in his monthly heat cycle, those three days each month when conception was 100% assured…at least, it was assured if Ratchet would initiate a spark merge within the first five minutes of his transfluid spilling into the gestation chamber. Ratchet’s optics momentarily fixed on the slim midsection, wondering, wanting to know what it would be like to have a sparkling running around underfoot. But Optimus would never allow it, not while war was going on.

The ambulance tossed the soiled cloth to the floor and settled in beside Optimus, who was now laying down on his side with his left arm underneath his helm and his right servo over his midsection. Ratchet slid a leg between the Prime’s own legs and nuzzled his face into his back, reaching around and placing a silver servo over the dark servo stroking Optimus’s abdomen.

Optimus sighed contentedly. “You’re alive.”

Ratchet thumbed the back of Optimus’s servo with his own. “I thought you already realized that Optimus. I did just jam myself into your body,” he replied with a husky voice, raising his servo to gently stroke the Prime’s cheek. Optimus nuzzled into the warm touch as the medic continued, “I apologize for going off on you and Arcee like that. I shouldn’t have let the synthetic energon impair my judgment.”

Optimus sighed, “You’re forgiven, Ratchet. Just don’t leave us. We need you.”

Ratchet traced a small design he’d learned from Miko, something called a heart, on his Prime’s cheek. He knew that “We need you” was Optimus-speak for “I need you.” The medic traced a line to the corner of Optimus’s mouth. “I’m going to be here for a while longer Optimus. Don’t worry. I’ll be here. It’ll take more than Megatron to keep me from you,” he murmured into the Prime’s audio fin. Optimus shifted slightly and took the medic’s index finger into his mouth, lightly suckling it. Shutting down his interfacing systems before they could so much as give a hopeful whine, the medic withdrew the now-wet digit. “Recharge. Now. You need it.”

“Mmm. So do you,” came a sleepy voice.

A few minutes later, Optimus was deep in recharge, hugging one of Ratchet’s arms to his chassis as the medic lay awake, hearing the mech’s systems running and purring smoothly. The medic sighed against the semi’s neck and slowly withdrew his arm from the red and blue mech’s grip, lowering it to the Prime’s midsection. He checked his internal chronometer, which flashed 11:54 PM at him, and fell into recharge dreaming of Optimus lovingly cradling a tiny newspark to his chest.


End file.
